H...O...L...L...Y...W...O...O...D...
up in the warm hills, nine billboard-sized letters appear to be a bit out
of line, as usual. Although the familiar white sign is noticeably run-down,
it's still the proud calling card of a city built on dreams.

But
something seems slightly wrong. Several more letters have been
placed after the D: an L, an A, an N and yet another D,
to spell out the word "HOLLYWOODLAND."

An
abrupt, soundless flash produces blinding whiteness, which gives
way to a confused jumble of lights and darks. Eventually, these
formless shapes resolve themselves into a hand-painted sign
announcing "The Great Merlinsky," with old-fashioned flourishes
and curlicues.

A
tall bespectacled man stands at the sidewalk's edge, sporting a
beat-up fedora and snapping his suspenders. He's midway through his
late-morning street show, and the few dozen people in his audience look
up at the Hollywoodland sign in wonder. Their faces have been illuminated
by the sudden glare; their pupils are pinpoints.

Merlinsky
refuses to be thrown by this interruption, and sets his jaw. "Folks, it's
just another publicity stunt to attract househunters up into those
godforsaken hills. Let's get back down to business. Where's the ace
of spades? Card number one, two or three? Larry, Moe or Curly?
Nixon, Haldemann or Ehrlichman?" He pauses, scratching his
ear and muttering, "Wait a minute, that's a little ahead
of this time, ain't it?"

Inside
the red trolley pulling up to a stop on the boulevard, an athletic-looking
teenaged boy peers out the window and notices this impromptu show.
As the doors open, he picks up his small suitcase and steps down
onto the pavement. Strolling up behind the crowd, he cranes
his neck to watch the performance.

Merlinsky
points at a woman in the front row. "Madame, may I examine the
contents of your handbag?" The woman obliges, and he rummages
through her purse - looking up, he offhandedly notices the
crowd watching him. "This ain't part of the act, I just wanted a stick
of gum." He's disappointed when his search doesn't pan out, and
tosses the handbag back to the woman. "Next time, let's come
prepared, huh?!"

He
surveys the crowd, pulls out a deck of cards, and throws them to
a bald man in the middle. "Hey, Slick - catch! Separate
the red cards from the black. It's a simple job, so don't screw it up! In
the meantime..." Merlinsky produces a mechanical, expandable/collapsible
accordion-like device with a rubber hand attached to the end. He shoots it
to the rear of the crowd, hanging it in front of the newly-arrived teenager.
"...I need a fresh victim, ah, a new volunteer. You, young man, you in the
back. Shake hands!"

The
kid is shocked, and, in his confusion, actually
shakes hands with the contraption. "Me?!"

"Yeah,
you in the six-dollar suit! You just volunteered!"

"Oh,
no!"

"Oh,
yeah! Get yer fresh face and yer youthful gullibility up here. We'll
see what we can do to corrupt ya. My name's Harry. What's yours,
and where ya from?"

The
crowd parts, and pushes the kid up front. "Jake Timmons, from
St. Louis!"

"St.
Looey, eh? They'll stamp your passport down
at the corner, after the show."

The
crowd applauds, loving it. Harry sets up a con game on the small
table at his side, arranging three huge walnut shells in a row, a few
inches apart from each other. "Here we have three garden-variety
walnut shells." He looks up in mock surprise, as people react to their
enormous size. "I didn't say whose garden it was, did I?!" He becomes
absorbed in aligning the shells perfectly. "A good friend got these for me.
He was a little nuts." Harry examines one of the shells minutely. "But he
parlayed that into some mighty big nuts. And yes, they were hell to
crack."

Harry
turns to the bald guy, holding the cards. "Ya got the red ones
separated from the black, yet?"

"Yes."

"Now
throw out the aces and the queens."

Harry
looks over at Jake. "Lessee here, we need something else
for this shell game... aha, here it is." He pulls a red rubber ball
from behind Jake's ear, bewildering and delighting the teenager.
Harry then continues talking to the crowd. "This is an old game.
You've all seen this one, haven't ya? The con man - that's me -
tricks the rube..." He makes a small motion with his head. "...that's him -
into guessing which shell the ball AIN'T under, with a few fancy moves like
this."

After
demonstrating the shell game con, Harry hands the ball to Jake
and says, "But this time, it's a little different, 'cause now you get to
Con The Con Man." He pauses for effect. "I developed this into a radio
quiz show, but it didn't fly - nobody but me ever won." He steps back,
facing away from Jake and the shell-game table. Looking directly at the crowd,
he begins talking to Jake. "Okay, take the ball and place it under one of
the shells. Make sure you remember which one it's under." Harry asks the
audience, "Everybody see it?"

They
answer, as one, "Yes!"

Still
facing the crowd, Harry instructs Jake. "Okay. Now mix 'em up, mix 'em up...
not too fast, we don't wanna lose anybody here." After the young man scrambles
the shells, Harry continues, to the crowd, "Okay, everybody know which one
the ball's under?" They respond with mixed yesses and noes, exasperating
the magician. "You guys wanna run a shell game, ya gotta pay attention. Now
lissen up, lissen up...." He looks back toward Jake. "If a pig and a half
eats a pie and a half in a minute and a half, how long does it take for a
talking horse to read the New York Times?" He pauses, but not long enough
for Jake to catch up. "Remember where the ball is? Don't show me." When he
turns back to the crowd, Harry smirks. "I'm tryin' to confuse him, but he's
doin' a helluva job on his own."

Suddenly,
another dazzling flash of light illuminates the Hollywoodland sign.
Harry clenches his teeth and murmurs, under his breath, "I'm gonna
hafta deal with that joker, sooner or later."

While
rubbing his eyes, Jake whispers, "What?"

"Nuthin',
kid, nuthin'." Harry faces the crowd and speaks to Jake in a
louder voice. "Alright, show 'em where the ball is." His tone becomes
sarcastic, because he knows Jake is confused. "If ya gotta lift up all
three shells, go ahead, go ahead... okay, show 'em the first one, put
it back... show 'em the second one, put it back... show 'em the third one,
put it back."

Harry
lets the crowd know he's losing patience. "Now,
one more time, everybody see where the ball is?"

The
response is a resounding YES!

Turning
back to the table and Jake, Harry smiles, and points at the first
shell. "Now, it's got to be under this one..." Then he indicates the
second shell. "Or this one..." Finally, he's pointing at the third shell.
"Or this one. Don'tcha just love the suspense?!"

Harry
glances out into the audience, looking to harass the bald guy,
who's still holding the deck of cards. "All the aces and queens
gone?"

"Yes."

"Then
separate the face cards from the number cards."

The
man looks woebegone, but Harry turns back to Jake. "Remember
which one the ball was under?"

Jake's
confident. "Yes."

"Don't
show me. It was this one, right?"

Jake
smiles and nods, as Harry lifts the shell, to a smattering of
applause. The teenager melts back into the crowd, and Harry
points at him. "Whaddaya say we give him a hand, folks, give
him a hand!" The audience applauds more vigorously, and Harry pulls
a fake rubber hand from his bag. He offers it to Jake, who doesn't notice.
Harry throws the hand over his shoulder, then starts to put the shells back
into his bag, one at a time, revealing an identical red ball under each.
The applause grows stronger with each shell.

Harry
bows, then reaches into the bag to pull out a bowling pin. "Found
this in the alley out back." The crowd groans. "Saved it from a fate
worse than death - being hit by a gutter ball." The groaning
continues, mixed with some chuckles.

Harry
examines the pin, then remembers the bald guy. "Have you
finished separating the face cards from the number cards yet?"

In
a long-suffering voice, the man replies, "Yes."

Harry
lets the crowd in on the con. "Kept him busy, didn't I? He thought I
was actually gonna use those cards." He admonishes the bald guy,
"What use is a deck of cards with no aces and queens?" Harry
waves the man off, dismissing the idea, then reaches for
the bowling pin again.

As
Harry glances down the street, he sees something which
obviously rattles him, so he lays his fedora on the ground,
and begins to pack up his kit. "Folks, I'm sorry, the bowling pin
trick will hafta wait 'til the next show, just down the street here, in one
hour. If you enjoyed yourselves, you can show your appreciation in a
concrete way by droppin' something in the hat. And I don't mean
pieces of cement!"

The
crowd begins to disperse, some tossing coins into the hat, and Jake
approaches Harry, saying, "I wish I'd seen more of your show - you're
really good! I'd love to learn how you do all that stuff."

"Glad
ya liked it, kid - maybe we can set up some lessons for ya." Harry
shoots another sidewise look down the street, and redoubles his packing
efforts. "Look, Slick, can ya do me a
favor?"

"Sure!"

"Scoop
up the dough in my hat, put it in your pocket, and limp down the street,
that way." Harry points in the opposite direction from the one which
has been bothering him.

"You
know, RUN, as in walking very fast. Now take the cash
and get going. Remember to do a good limp."

Jake
hesitates, then collects the money, picks up his suitcase, and
starts limping down the street. From the other direction, a fat,
sweaty policeman bustles up to the con man, wheezing. "Harry,
if I've told you once, I've told you a million times; when you're
making a profit, you must get a permit."

"Finn,
I ain't doing it for the cash - it's all for charity. See, there's
no dough in my hat. I gave it all to that crippled kid."

"An
accomplice, eh?" The officer wearily heads after Jake, shouting,
"Hey, come back here! I want to talk to you!"

Jake's
frightened, so he takes off sprinting. Harry finishes packing, and
lights out the other way. The cop, seeing he's been had, starts in
one direction, then the other. But running in this heat is clearly a
distasteful proposition, so he simply mops his brow and groans in
frustration.

***

Twenty
minutes later, Jake shuffles slowly down Vine Street, carrying his
suitcase and looking hungrily into restaurant windows. A hooked
cane quickly snakes out of an alleyway and around his neck,
yanking him off the sidewalk. Much to Jake's surprise, it's Harry.
"Kid, ya can't just mosey on down the street like that - ya
gotta keep an eye out for that fat butt flatfoot!"

"How'd
you do that? When do I start? Being your apprentice, I
mean? Can we eat first? What..."

"One
at a time, one at a time, kid. I know a diner right up the
street - we can strap on the old feed bag and keep outta
sight until Officer Finn goes home for lunch."

Jake
pulls some coins out of his pocket. "Here's your money."

"That'll
be your first paycheck - you earned it. Besides, when I
dipped yer wallet, a moth flew out."

"I'm
gonna get paid?!"

Harry
smiles. "If ya play your cards right, I might even be persuaded
to cook ya a hot supper tonight."

"That'd
be swell!"

Staring
at the teenager's suitcase, Harry says, "Ya don't have a place to
stay, do ya?"

"Well..."

"That's
okay, kid, I got a couch you can sleep on."

"Why
are you helping me out like this?"

"Let's
just say I knew you'd step off that trolley today and start helping ME
out... now let's go get some grub."

***

Several
hours later, two figures trudge up a tree-lined street in the hills. Jake
still carries his suitcase, and Harry's lugging the kit bag. It's dusk,
and they're both bushed, but Harry's trying to make conversation.
"How long ya plannin' to stay in town?"

Jake
seems troubled. "I... came here to... find my fortune."

Harry
pulls a few dollar bills out of his pocket and looks at them. "We did okay
for five shows, but this business won't make ya rich, kid."

"Well,
I can't go back to St. Louis." Jake's tone carries a certain finality,
cutting short Harry's chatter.

After
a short silence, Harry points out a medium-sized stone mansion,
vaguely medieval, and horrendously overgrown with vines and
weeds. "My little shack is over yonder."

"You
live there?"

"A man's home is his castle."

Jake
shivers. "That place could be haunted."

"Nah,
the ghosts all left. Couldn't stand my snoring."

"It
still looks creepy."

Harry
tries some obviously fake sincerity. "But it's REAL comfy inside!" As
they approach the front door, Harry notices a blackened area around
the lock, and mumbles, "So... he knows."

"What?"

"Oh,
nuthin'. C'mere, I wantcha to meet a friend." Harry motions Jake into
a large room whose walls are lined with books, really ancient tomes,
from floor to ceiling. A stuffed alligator dangles on thin wires, and the
furniture is draped with sheets. At the room's center, standing on a
wooden perch and facing away from Harry and Jake, is a stuffed
owl. Or... maybe not. A deep voice booms from that general direction.
"Harry, what have you dragged home this time?"

Jake's
unnerved. "Wh-hoo-hoo said that?"

The
owl's head swivels to face Harry, and its beak is
moving. "Is he making fun of me?"

Harry
leads Jake over to the perch. "Jake, I'd like ya to meet Socrates.
He's older than dirt."

Jake
gasps, "This bird can talk?"

"I
was about to ask the same question about you, buster," Socrates
replies. Pausing, the owl's deep eyes stare pointedly at Harry.
"And YOU can lose those wisecracks about my age."

Harry
chuckles. "Sorry, old timer. Wouldja tell Jake the story about that king
ya used to hang out with?"

"You
mean that snot-nosed kid who got lucky, and yanked a sword
out of some stone?"

"That's the one."

Jake's
awestruck. "He knew Arthur?"

Socrates
fluffs his feathers. "I know all the biggies, kid. Let me tell you
about the wizard who introduced me and Artie..."

As
Socrates begins to hold forth, Harry slips off into
the kitchen.

***

After
dinner, the owl grooms his wings, while sitting on a perch
next to the dining table. Harry smokes a cigar, with his fedora
pushed back, and Jake carefully folds his used napkin, declaring,
"You're quite a cook, Harry."

"Cellar
rat. I fished it outta one of the basement traps." Harry grimaces.

"I
don't know what it is - but lately those rats have been unusually
tender and succulent."

Harry
cuts him off. "OK, if we're all full - maybe
Jake's ready for one more performance?"

The
teenager is still not quite comfortable with the idea of a talking
owl, but he's clearly eager to see what's next. "We're going back
out on the streets?"

"Nah -
I want ya to see the Magic Castle, a private club for magicians.
I do gigs over there once in awhile."

Socrates
intones, mysteriously, "That's where he shows his REAL
stuff."

***

In
the Magic Castle's "Palace Of Mystery," curtain cables, lighting
equipment and scenic backdrops dominate a small, typical backstage
area. The sound of an audience filters through, from the other side of
a closed curtain. A confident young woman dashes around with a clipboard,
doing last-minute checks on every performance detail. As she turns away from
the lighting panel, she bumps into Jake. Surprised at his non-formal attire,
she softly whispers, "If you're going onstage tonight, you'd better get dressed.
We're almost ready to start."

"Oh,
I can't do that stuff. I'm here with Harry... er, The Great
Merlinsky."

"You're
with him? He's the best magician I've ever seen!"

"And
you've probably seen quite a lot."

She
gestures around the stage. "Well, yeah - I do some
of their setup."

"Sounds fascinating."

"Usually.
But most of 'em are jerks, and use magic to hide it." She sniffles, and
pulls a handkerchief out of her back pocket. The handkerchief is tied to
many others, in all hues of the rainbow. "See? This is the Amazing
Crisco's idea of a joke."

Jake
chuckles, "Well, it IS kind of funny..."

"Not
if you're allergic to this stuff." She sneezes, and pulls faster on the
handkerchiefs - more and more emerge from her pocket, until a
fair-sized heap sits on the stage floor. Then she collapses in a sneezing
fit.

Jake
quickly moves the pile away from her, and unties her real
handkerchief from the end. "Here."

"Oh,
that's so sweet of you." She blows her nose, sniffling, and looks at
her watch. "Fiddlesticks. I'm running late." She turns to check the
special effects control board. "By the way, my name's Connie." As
she tests some buttons with one hand, she offers the other to Jake.
They shake briefly, before she runs to rearrange a cable.

"And
mine's Jake. Can I help with anything?"

"I
think Merlinsky's using the trap door for his vanishing volunteer tonight.
Could you make sure the release is working?"

"Where's
that?"

"Right over there."

"Ooooooo-kay,
I see the door. But I assume there's a separate release?"

"It's
the black nail upstage." She points.

Jake
tentatively pushes a nail. When the trap door opens, he giggles
triumphantly, then closes it again. "Okay, this works. What
else?"

"Hmmmm...
Crisco will use this cable for levitation... and... I guess that's about
it. Let's get the emcee and enjoy the show."

Jake
is delighted to be included in Connie's backstage routine, and
wriggles like an eager puppy. He follows her to the dressing
rooms.

***

Forty
minutes later, Harry stands on the small stage, winding up his
act. He's in a tuxedo, but still wears his fedora; beside him is a
large, person-sized box. "...I need a fresh victim, ah, a new volunteer.
Madame, would you be so kind as to give me a hand?"

A
beautiful woman in a low-cut evening gown hesitantly steps up to
the stage. "How can I help?"

Harry
takes a moment to ogle her. "Just by standing there and looking
scrumptious." She's flattered, and somewhat embarrassed, as the audience
snickers. "Actually, I'd like you to stand inside this box for just a moment.
What's your name?"

"Terry."

Harry
opens the front door of the box. "Terry, if you'll just step in here,
I'll have you back in your seat in no time."

From
the wings, Jake watches Harry's act with rapt attention, but
Connie's fretting. "He'd better maneuver that thing over the trap door
before he starts."

Catching
her drift, Jake starts to worry. "Uh-oh, she's in the box. He can't
move it now."

"We'd
better get the emcee ready to go out there. Merlinsky's going to
embarrass himself."

"Gosh
darn it. His act was going so well."

Connie
prepares the special effects board. "At least I'll do
his smoke."

Onstage,
Harry gestures at the closed box, with Terry inside.

Backstage,
Connie flips a switch, and a puff of smoke shoots from the top of the
box.

Harry
opens it up with a flourish. Every person in the audience simultaneously
draws a sharp intake of breath. They're shocked.